Send me home.”
“Mr. Risk.” The guidance counselor from Hicksville pokes his head into the office.
Worry lines clutter his overly large forehead and his fingers white-knuckle a fax. I told him I majored in detention while at Eastwick. “Can I have a moment?”
I tilt my head, knowing the words to say to make Mr. Dwyer uncomfortable. “What was that class you wanted to put me in? Hmm.” I tap my finger to my chin. “Honors English?”
“Sit down, Elisabeth.” Scott’s getting really good at demanding things in a low voice.
“Okay, Mr. Dwyer, let’s discuss Beth’s
schedule.”
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Ryan
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, bow your heads and
give an amen. Scott Risk’s niece is attending Bullitt County High and the dare is back in play. I weave through the crowded hallway with an extra spring in my step. Defeat is a nasty word. A word I no longer have to accept.
My mood crashes when I spot Chris backing Lacy against a locker. His head angles down as hers inches up. Not a good position to be in with the assistant principal exiting his office.
Last year, he lectured the junior class on our hormones, carnal impulses, and the consequences for those who break the body boundary barrier. In plain English: if you’re caught standing close to a person of the opposite sex, then you’ll spend a day in
detention. Back-to-back state championships require practice, not detention.
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“Backseats of cars work.” I ease to the
other side of Chris and Lacy to block the oncoming assistant principal’s view.
“Preferably off campus.”
Chris groans when Lacy places her hand on his chest and pushes him until they’re an “acceptable” distance apart. She lets out a frustrated sigh. “Morning, Ry.”
“Go away,” Chris says flatly.
“The assistant principal is on the prowl and we are not moving practice like we did last year because you’re sitting in detention.”
Chris lets out a sigh identical to Lacy’s.
“You need a girlfriend.”
“Exactly!” Lacy throws her arms out. “I’ve been saying that for months. Not an evil girlfriend. We are not doing evil again. I was tired of wearing crucifixes. I considered carrying holy water, but then I would have had to sneak into a church and then—”
“Shut it down,” I tell her. There has always been bad blood between Gwen and Lace, but I dated Gwen once. I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting her.
The first warning bell rings, and the three of us head to English. Standing by himself, HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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oozing perpetual boredom, Logan waits for us at the line between the seniors’ lockers and the juniors’. The four of us take as many classes as we can together. For fun. For camaraderie. For Lacy and Logan to help me and Chris with homework.
Because the boy is smarter than Einstein and most of the kids in this school are dumber than dirt, Logan takes senior courses. Next year, they won’t have any classes advanced enough for him, so odds are they’ll shove him in a dark corner of the library and pretend he doesn’t exist.
I glance around the hallway, trying to spot Beth. “So, about that continuing dare from Friday.”
“You mean the bet you lost on Friday.” Chris enters English and claims our usual seats by the window. Lacy stays in the hallway to do her girl-talk thing.
“No, the bet I’m going to win.”
Chris flashes a disbelieving grin. “Logan, do you hear the smack he’s talking?”
Logan drops into his seat and slouches. “You lost, Ryan. Badly.”
“Badly?” I ask.
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“The most fun I’ve had in weeks,” Chris
says. “In fact, let’s relive the moment. Hi, I’m Ryan, I want your phone number.” He holds out his hand to Logan.
“Let me think,” Logan says. “She had this elegant way of talking. Oh, yeah, I believe her response was ‘Fuck you.’”
“Her name is Beth.”
“Getting her name wasn’t the dare.”
Determined to keep Mrs. Rowe from taking
into her possession every hat he owns like last year, Chris shoves his cap into his back pocket.
“You lost. Be a man. Suck it up. Or let us continue to make fun of you. Either way works.”
“I like making fun of him,” says Logan.
I lower my voice and lean into the aisle so only Logan and Chris can hear. I have a small window of opportunity and the longer people stay in the dark regarding her uncle, the better my odds of scoring her number. Scott is a god at this school, which automatically makes her a demigod. “Her real name is Elisabeth Risk and she’s Scott Risk’s niece.”
“Beth.” Books slam on my desk and the
three of us flinch and look up. Black hair, nose HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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ring, and a form-fitting white shirt